I hate the summer. I hate everything about it. I hate it with the intensity of *irony alert* a thousand burning suns. I’ve tried to describe how much I hate summer, but it’s hard to find the words to do my feelings justice. If I were to try to use my words without filters, it would just be a stream of curse words whenever I think of summer. I know I bitch the most about the heat because I am a delicate fucking flower who wilts in anything above 70.
Side Note: On Friday, one of my taiji classmates said that we could go to the lovely park on Saturday for class. Quick context: we had been going to her condo and using the rec room for the last few Saturdays, but it had already been booked for this week. That’s when she said we could go to the park (my teacher offered her house, which was where we met on Friday as well), and I said with a laugh, “You can, but I won’t be there.” It was supposed to be ‘feels like’ 95 on Saturday, and while it ended up more like ‘feels like’ 89 or so, no way in hell I was going to do anything remotely physical in the heat. Right now, the ‘real feel’ is 81, and it’s not even 11 a.m. yet. I know I sound like I’m whining when I bitch about the heat, and I am. It has such a great effect on me, however, that I can’t even think after a minute or two of being in the heat. On the way back from taiji Friday, I stopped at the gas station to buy some snacks. That’s another post for another day. I step out of the car, and–by the way. The A/C on the driver side is broken. Only the driver side. That’s how I know there is no god.
Anyhoooo. Two minutes in the heat, and I’m a wreck for the next hour. Not only am I exhausted and sweating profusely, I am angry. Not just irritated, but actually angry. I’m enough of a bitch as it is; I do not need the hotness to shorten my temper. When I’m in the heat, I’m acutely aware of how miserable I am. It’s all I can think of, and my whole world has narrowed to how fucking hot it is. Earlier, I said that anything over 70 starts that miserable feeling, but if I were going to be real with you, I’d say 65 is really the upper limit of my comfort zone. It makes it interesting for me to read debates on hot vs. cold because even the cold people are more like ’65’ is perfect. I have my heat set for 62 during the day and 60 at night (in the winter). Some of the cold people were saying that 68 was good. That’s considered cold? That’s me shorts and a tank top if I have to be civilized.
What was I saying? Oh, right. Other than the heat, there are other reasons I hate summer. Allergies is a big one. I am allergic to everything under the sun, and things are all abloom in the spring/summer. I like to joke that I’m allergic to air, but it’s not far from wrong. It would be easier to name the things I’m not allergic* to than what I am, but I’m not going to do either. Suffice to say that going outside in the summer wreaks havoc on my allergies, and then let’s continue that with talking about my freaking sinuses. Which are on the edge of doing something bad, bad, bad. I could feel it last night right as I was trying to sleep. Again, it’s hard to explain, but my nose suddenly felt as if a thousand little needles were being crammed into it. Very tiny little needles, and it’s like an acupuncture effect in that my nose feels very porous and open. What I’m trying to say is that it doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel good, either. It’s at the base of my nose–meaning not the nostrils. To be fair, sinus issues occur all year round, so it’s not just a summer thing. I think I’m angrier about it in the summer because rightly or wrongly, I view sinus issues as a winter thing so it’s adding insult to injury.
Another thing that makes me hate summer is bugs. Yes, in general. I hate them in my house. We have an agreement–that I made up unilaterally–that outside, they’re living their best life. Inside, they’re dead meat. I get irrationally angry when I see a bug in my house, which makes no sense. I mean, from their point of view. A space is a space, so why not inside? I get you, my little creepy friends, but I don’t like you. In addition, I am allergic to mosquito bites. Here, I am using allergic in the colloquial sense because the medical definition is really stringent. However, my bites swell up and are hot and puffy to the touch, which is not fun at all. Sometimes, there’s a hard ball in the center of them, which also sucks. One time, I was in Taiwan, and my legs were covered with them. They were each about the size of, um, a plum? That’s the closest I can get to it. Right now, I have roughly a hundred bites on my body. I’m not kidding. I have four on my right pointer finger, for example. Or, I did. I think I’m down to two on that finger. The worst part of it is that random parts of my body will suddenly become itchy as hell even though I don’t have a new bite. I’ve had bites in my pussy before, which is another level of hell. Anyway, right now, my left leg (outside and underneath) is itchy as hell.
It’s the combination of all these things that make me loathe summer. I have a fan that is constantly running on high, and I miss it when I sleep at night because I’m now not in the same room on my computer as where I sleep. Yes, I could bring it with me every night, but let’s face it, it’s not going to happen. I had intended to write about some other things I hate, but I’m too hot, tired, and grumpy to do it. Maybe in the next post.
*I’m using allergic in the colloquial sense. I’m allergic in the medical sense to a whole slew of things including almost everything in the natural world, but I am also very sensitive to other things. I tend to call them sensitivities, but I might call them allergies when talking about them to other people, such as servers/cashiers in restaurants.